


Date Night

by mambo



Series: four years of college and plenty of knowledge [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (duh), Alternate Universe - College/University, And Darcy Calls Steve Deep Throat, And Even The Most Wonderful Couples Sometimes Fight, And Steve Gets His Own Radio Show, Because Of His Deep Voice, College, College AU, Frat Boy!Bucky, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk!Steve, The Return Of The Steve POV, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fridays are date nights for art major Steve Rogers and his fratty boyfriend Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how I said there would definitely only be one more part to this series? I lied. This was completely unplanned, but now it exists.

I said I love you and that's forever  
And this I promise from my heart  
I couldn't love you any better  
I love you just the way you are.

\--From "Just The Way You Are" by Billy Joel _  
_

...

It was never really a question.

Professor Erskine—Steve’s advisor—asks him the question anyhow during the second week of his sophomore year. “It doesn’t have to be the whole year, Steven. You can also go for just a semester.” Steve’s answer?

An emphatic, “No.”

“It’s a good opportunity,” Professor Erskine explains in his German accent. “And while I understand your hesitancy, I do wonder if you have thought out your decision fully. As an art major, you could have a wonderful time in Italy or France. Have you been to Europe before?” Steve shakes his head. “Think: a semester in Paris, spending weekends in the Louvre, taking a trip down to Italy for the weekend to look at the work of the old masters or over to Germany to look at the Expressionists.” He pauses. “It’s a hard thing to resist for most students, but I say that you’re resisting quite well. Are there any reasons why you’re hesitating? Your grades are more than suitable and your professors believe that you’re capable of doing the work.”

Because Steve is sure that “My boyfriend will be a senior and I don’t want to miss a minute of him being here” isn’t an adequate answer, Steve mutters something noncommittal about money.

“You know that your financial aid transfers over, Steven. With the exception of the plane ticket, if you’re frugal it wouldn’t cost more than tuition. Plus, there are several scholarships you can apply for to increase your aid. There are even several programs in the United States that you can apply to. I know of several in New York City or Washington D.C. that offer wonderful opportunities at museums and galleries. An internship could help with the cost.”

“I’m sorry Professor, but my mind is made up. I’m going to stay stay here.”

Professor Erskine takes a deep breath through his nose; he nods once, like Steve is being frustrating. Steve is used to that kind of attention. It’s the way Bucky looks at him about 78% of the time. “I understand, but please just stop by the Off-Campus Opportunities Office take a look at some of the brochures. You may surprise yourself with what you find.”

**…**

Steve heads straight to McCoy Hall after his meeting, pausing briefly to say hello to Jim, who he passes in the hall. Bucky moved rooms this year. Steve lets himself inside. Bucky made a copy of the key at the local Wal-Mart for Steve, even though it’s definitely against the rules of the college. “Makes it easier,” Bucky had explained on their first night back on campus. “That way you don’t have to sit in the hall and wait for me if I’m out.”

Which had happened several times during the previous semester. Bucky always told him to just go to the lounge and wait there, but it still feels a little awkward being in that prime Sigma Pi territory. And Dum Dum seems to always be there and is always asking about their sex life. While Steve likes Dum Dum, he really does, he sometimes just wants to tell him to go watch a porno if he’s so into guys having sex. Then again, Steve knows that it’s just to needle him—well, to needle Bucky _through_ needling Steve—so Steve just tries to be as shocking as humanly possible and tries to one-up Dum Dum. It usually doesn’t work, but the one time Bucky heard him talking dirty like that… Well, it ended up being a fun night.

And it’s nice to just let himself into Bucky’s room, like they’re living together. Technically, Steve has a room across the quad in Darkholme Hall that he shares with Sam, but admittedly, he spends a lot of time in McCoy.

Once inside, Steve opens up the blinds and sits down on Bucky’s immaculately made bed. Bucky still has a single, but it’s a bit bigger and faces the opposite direction than his former room. It disoriented Steve at first, but it’s not like Bucky has changed the decor all that much. Still the propaganda posters. Still the red rug. The only significant changes are on his wall of photos. Steve knows all of the people on it now, the pictures of his ma, that Bucky pointed out to Steve on March 8th, her birthday. He recognizes Bucky’s sister Rebecca, too. They’ve Skyped a few times, the three of them. Steve likes Becky and he likes to think that Becky likes him, too.

But the photos Steve likes the best are the new ones Bucky secretly added without Steve even knowing. They’re the photos of the two of them. There’s the one Bucky took of the two of them the first time he made Steve wear his scarf back before they were together, which feels like a lifetime ago even if it was less than year. And there’s one from the December formal, Steve glancing away from Jim and the camera, embarrassed and cheeks flushed from the champagne. There’s even one of Steve, flustered and messy just minutes after he threw-up on the Cyclone at Coney Island. Bucky says it’s cute; Steve thinks it’s awful. Steve also thinks that Bucky just likes pictures that get Steve riled up, which isn’t really fair. 

Settling back on Bucky’s pillows, Steve grabs Bucky Bear—given to Bucy by Becky when they were little; she had chosen the name, not him—and holds him to tight to his chest. It’s been a long day, but it’s finally, _finally_ Friday, so Steve lets himself close his eyes and…

**…**

Steve wakes-up disoriented with a big pile of Bucky Barnes half on top of him. Steve grunts and Bucky snuffles in turn, snuggles closer to Steve and opens an eye. “Mornin’ sleepyhead.”

Steve glances out the window; it’s light out. Could he have really slept through the _whole_ evening? “Shit Buck, is it really—“

Bucky chuckles. “Just kiddin’, just kiddin’.” Steve pokes him in the side and Bucky yawps, reaches over to ruffle Steve’s hair. “It ain’t too late. Haven’t been here too long.” Bucky yawns. “But takin’ a nap was a good idea. I’m beat.”

“Oh,” Steve says, trying not to be disappointed. Sure, he’s tired, but they both had a busy week—academics, hobbies, jobs and friends; they’re careful not to let their relationship take over every aspect of their life—and tonight was supposed to be date night. Well, every Friday night is supposed to be date night, but last Friday Steve had a meeting and the one before that Sigma Pi hosted a welcome back party. So… This is supposed to be their first _official_ date night. Just a few hours for the two of them to do whatever, no stress and no worries and _no one else_.

Bucky smiles and runs a hand through Steve’s hair. Steve lets his eyes flutter shut at the touch; it feels so nice to have Bucky’s fingers brush lightly against his scalp. “You think I’m cancellin’ on ya, don’t you?” Steve makes a noncommittal sound—kinda hard to think when Bucky’s stroking his hair like that—which just makes Bucky chuckle, soft and low. “No way, Rogers. Been lookin’ forward to this all week.” He takes a deep breath and Steve’s eyes are still closed. “Then again, I like this.” His voice gets softer. “Like _you_.”

Steve forces his eyes open. “Sap,” he says. Bucky smiles, face close enough to Steve’s that he can feel his warm breath, see his long, dark eyelashes. It’s been almost a year but Bucky still makes something tingle in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

“Whatever,” Bucky says, hauling himself up to a sitting position with a grunt. “Gotta entertain you, don’t I? So what’ll it be? Dinner? Dancin’? Paintin’ the town red?”

Steve hauls himself up next to Bucky and settles his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t care,” Steve says. He leans up and presses a kiss to Bucky’s neck and is rewarded by the small sound of pleasure Bucky makes at the contact. “Whatever you want.”

“This isn’t gonna be one of those nights where we spend hours and hours tryin’ to decide what we’re gonna do, right? Because as nice as that is, I’m starvin’.”

Bucky has an endless pit of a stomach that he’s always filling with fatty foods and take-out. Steve knows that he works out at least a few times a week—on top of everything else he does, which is sort of amazing—but Steve is still surprised that he manages to have such a smooth stomach. Not that it matters much to Steve; he thinks he’d still like Bucky if he weighed nine hundred pounds or ended up as tiny as Steve himself. Bucky does have a bit of an ass though. Nothing too noticeable if you’re not looking, but in bed Steve loves unleashing it from the confines of Bucky’s pants and underwear and sinking his fingers into the one slightly fleshy thing they share between them. It’s a perfect butt, sort of like the statue of David. Steve never tires of it, no matter what.

But Steve really needs to stop thinking of Bucky’s ass or else they’re never gonna make it out of his room.

“Chinese?” Steve suggests because it’s easy and not the dining hall.

As he expected, Bucky perks up. “‘Course,” he says.

Bucky pulls himself out of the bed, holds out a hand for Steve. Steve rolls his eyes but takes it anyway. “You wanna go now?” Bucky asks, heading to his desk and picking up a comb.

“Sure,” Steve responds, watching Bucky comb back his hair, fix it where it fell out of place while he was napping. Unable to help himself, Steve closes the distance between them. He slips one hand into the back pocket of Bucky’s tight jeans and gives his ass a squeeze while he plants a kiss on Bucky’s jawline. Bucky grunts in surprise, drops the comb onto the desk and meets Steve’s lips for one lingering kiss.

“Get your hand off my ass or we ain’t leavin’ this bedroom, Stevie,” Bucky taunts as he pulls back just an inch, grinning rakishly.

Steve smiles back. “Just giving it something to look forward to after dinner.”

Bucky plops one more quick kiss on Steve’s lips, pulls Steve’s hand from his pocket and replaces it with his wallet. “Let’s go,” Bucky says. “Then we can get back sooner.”

**…**

“So what’d you and Erskine talk about?” Bucky asks before he slurps a big spoonful of egg drop soup.

“Scheduling mostly.” Steve pauses, then adds, “Asked me if I wanted to go abroad next year.”

Most people who choose to study off-campus at Xavier do so their junior year, either for a semester or the entire year. About two-thirds of the juniors go off-campus for at least one semester. This semester, for example, Gabe decided to go to France. He’s studying at the University of Paris and, from what Bucky tells Steve, is having an awesome time.

“Oh,” Bucky says. “You thinkin’ ‘bout it?”

“No way,” Steve says before eating some of his own soup.

“Why not?” Bucky asks. “Think of all the art you could see in Europe.Or China, I think. But you’re studyin’ the European stuff, right?”

Steve shrugs. “I’d rather stay here.”

Bucky sets his spoon down, lets it rest against the edge of his soup bowl. “This wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with it bein’ my senior year next year, right?” Steve shrugs, mutters something about it not really being a big deal. Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “C’mon Stevie, don’t give up an opportunity like that just for my ugly mug.”

“I’m not giving up anything,” Steve says, maybe a bit harsher than he means to be. “It’s my choice.” He pauses as Bucky finishes up his soup. “And It’s not like you went abroad this year,” Steve adds.

“That’s only because I have to keep workin’ to stay here and I don’t wanna have to deal with gettin’ a job somewhere else. All sorts of visas and paperwork and shit I don’t wanna deal with. Plus my history major has an American focus, so it’d be silly for me to go to Nicaragua or somethin’ when I’m tryin’ to understand New Deal judicial policy.” Steve purses his lips. “Besides,” Bucky adds quietly. “You know those fellowships I’m lookin’ at? A lot of ‘em are out of the country.”

“I know,” Steve says, voice steady and trying to pretend that the thought of Bucky being out of the country for at least a year—though some of those fellowships are for even longer—doesn’t make Steve want to scream.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna get one. All competitive and whatever,” Bucky lies. Steve knows he’ll be able to get something, if not everything he applies for. He’s got perfect grades, holds down a bunch of jobs and is the Vice President of Sigma Pi this year, along with being on the History Student Advisory Board. He’s definitely a better candidate than just about anyone else applying. “But I could be away for a while.” He stares down at his empty bowl of soup.

“Want the rest of mine?” Steve asks, pushing the half-full bowl Bucky’s way.

“Nah,” Bucky says. “We can have ‘em pack it up.”

Steve nods. Whenever he and Bucky go out not a morsel of food goes in the trash. “It’s different,” Steve says. “Me going abroad. There are a lot of good reasons for me to stay.”

Bucky sighs, reaches over for Steve’s soup, pulls it close and starts eating it. “Sure there are, Stevie. But there’re a lot of reasons for you to go, too.”

**…**

They argue a bit more over their main courses. And while they pay. And even while they walk back to McCoy, a longish walk where Bucky alternates between checking to see if Steve is too cold and telling him about all the opportunities his friends have had studying off-campus.

“Bucky,” Steve says, stopping him outside the door to McCoy. “Do you want me to leave?”

Bucky’s face falls. He’s got a plastic bag of leftovers in one hand, but reaches out and grabs Steve’s arm with the other. “What?” he asks, sounding hurt. “No Steve, of course not.”

“You sure do want me to go abroad, so I—“

“That’s…” Bucky sighs. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe you just want to get rid of me.”

“Not funny,” Bucky says. Steve just looks down. “C’mon Stevie. Let’s go upstairs. We can listen to your stupid show or watch a movie or somethin’.” Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll even watch _Project Runway_ with you, Stevie. And I’ll pay attention to it, respond when you make some comment. Won’t even start playin’ games on my phone, if it makes you happy.”

Steve can’t help but perk up just a bit. _Project Runway_ is probably his dirtiest pleasure that doesn’t involve Bucky’s mouth, dick or ass. “Really?” he asks.

Bucky smiles, looking relieved. “Yeah,” he responds. “Scout’s honor.”

Steve rolls his eyes—but can’t keep the smile off his face—and bumps Bucky’s shoulder on the way inside the dorm. “Like they’d’ve let you into the Scouts.”

Bucky laughs, following him inside.

**…**

Steve has trouble falling asleep that night. He opted to stay over, even though neither he nor Bucky were in the mood for anything more than a little cuddling before Bucky spooned up behind Steve, pulled his arm around Steve’s torso and held on tight.

They sleep like this a few nights a week, stuffed tight into Bucky’s twin-sized bed. Usually Steve sleeps best on these nights. Bucky is warm and strong; when Steve feels like he can’t breathe he tries to match his breaths up with Bucky’s to help him relax. Even Bucky’s snoring doesn’t mean much to Steve now. When it gets really bad, he’ll just turn off his hearing aid. With the dulled hearing in his right ear, the snoring becomes soft enough to just be pleasant white noise, drowning out whoever may be running down the hall or yelling outside the window. Bucky seems to enjoy these nights, too. “Better than a teddy bear,” he’ll joke. “‘Cept Bucky Bear doesn’t have icicle toes like you do.” But then his eyes get tender and his voice gets softer as he tells Steve that the nights that they’re together are his favorites, that he always sleeps sounder knowing Steve is safe in his arms.

But Steve can’t sleep tonight, even with Bucky’s face pressed against his neck and one leg nudging between Steve’s calves.

Rationally, Steve knows that Bucky doesn’t want him to go abroad because he wants to break-up with Steve. But the way he kept pushing it, like it’ll be Steve’s biggest regret if he doesn’t… Something just doesn’t sit well in Steve’s chest, is all. And while Steve is used to his chest feeling constricted and weird, this hurts in a new, different way. He wonders why Bucky would want to give this up, when they have suchlimited time left together. Bucky will _have_ to leave after graduation. Fellowship or not, Bucky will get a job somewhere, and statistically speaking, the probability of that job being anywhere near Xavier is slim. Is it so wrong for Steve to want to hold onto this as long as he can?

Bucky snuggles in closer to Steve, but rather than it feeling nice, it feels claustrophobic. Steve wants to get up, to take off a blanket and go to the bathroom. He wants to watch more _Project Runway_ , making Bucky cringe and yawn dramatically as he gets more bored and snuggly. And he wants to go back in time, to dinner, and to have never mentioned the fact that Erskine brought up study abroad plans at all.

**…**

“Are you planning on studying off-campus?” Steve asks Peggy over dining hall macaroni and cheese on Saturday at noon. It’s only the two of them. Sam is studying in the library and Lorraine is sleeping off a hangover. It’s always quiet on Saturdays in the dining hall, with many of their peers sleeping through lunch or opting for something a little more exciting than carby, cheesy mush. But Steve likes coming here during those quiet hours and spending a little time shooting the shit with Peggy.

She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. “I’m not sure,” she says. “There’s a program in Greece that I rather like, as well as one in Morocco. I will definitely be leaving. The only question is the destination.” She eats her macaroni.

Steve frowns. “So you’re positive you’re leaving?”

She nods. “I mean, there won’t be a better time to travel, really. After school you have a job, maybe a family. Most likely a mortgage of some kind, on top of paying off your student loans. Things only get more difficult when you have more responsibilities.” Steve is glaring at his mac and cheese like it’s offended him somehow. “Have you decided where you’ll be going?”

“‘I’m not,” he mutters.

“Oh,” Peggy says. “Any particular reason why?”

“I don’t know French,” Steve responds, spearing a noodle with malice. “How am I supposed to go to France if I don’t know French?”

Obviously sensing that this is not Steve’s main concern, but being too polite to mention it, Peggy merely responds with, “If you took the introductory course next semester, you would meet the basic requirement for off-campus study. I think you would have to wait until the second semester of your junior year, but it would still be plausible.”

“Whatever,” Steve replies because he’s four years old on the inside.

Much to Steve’s gratification, Peggy changes the subject. “I wish the weather would cool down. I can hardly focus when it’s so hot…”

But Steve has trouble focusing on the conversation and it has nothing to do with the heat.

**…**

Steve has his own radio show on the school station. He started during the second semester of his first year, ‘interning’ at the station, which really meant helping out upperclassmen with their shows and learning how to man the booth. He likes the radio station more than any other place on campus—excluding, of course, wherever Bucky Barnes is at any given moment—likes the coolness of the underground booth with its concrete walls. It’s always a mess and there’s graffiti all over the walls, desk and floor from where former DJs have signed their names or written down lyrics in messy Sharpie scrawl.

His show is on Tuesday nights, running from 10-midnight. He began it halfway through last semester, when another DJ ended up on academic probation and had to quit his show. Since Steve had been hanging out there all the time, Darcy—the unlikely leader of the station—decided that it was Steve who should get the showtime. “I know it seems like it’s not a great slot, muchacho, but that’s when all the kiddies are doing their homework and actually tune in. It’s prime, Steve-o, so don’t let us down.”

So far, Steve doesn’t think he’s let anyone down. But there’s still time. He is apparently pretty good at letting people down.

His show mostly consists of music, with him occasionally interjecting to give the name of the artist and song, along with maybe a small tidbit about the music. Darcy says that he should talk more, that he knows a lot about the bands he plays and her favorite parts of the show are when he mentions something. Steve, however, always needs to write out a script of whatever he’s going to say before he says it on air. He’s terrified he’ll mess something up, so he keeps the talking to a minimum.

Sometimes his shows have a theme, but more often than not it’s just Steve picking what he feels like a few hours ahead, organizing them into a playlist and writing out his spoken segments. It’s nice. A good hobby. Nothing serious.

But Steve is in a particularly sour mood that Tuesday. Not only has he been mildly ignoring Bucky, but his Advanced Painting teacher didn’t like the still life he did for her _and_ yet another one of his professors started harping on sophomores to figure out their study abroad plans. Which not everyone has. Because not everyone is going abroad. Jesus Christ, since when did everyone get so intense about this?

So Steve is a little frantic when he gets to the studio. Even worse, he doesn’t even have a show prepared.

“Just go wing it,” Darcy tells him from her usual perch outside the booth after he explained his predicament to her. “Look, just because you actually care about your show doesn’t mean that the rest of the station does. Even if you make it up as you go along you’re gonna be better than, like, all the other shows on here. Give somebody else a chance to catch up, Steve-o.” Except when she’s with her friend Jane or in class, Steve isn’t sure Darcy ever leaves the studio. He even caught her making out with another intern there once, late at night when was Steve was retrieving a forgotten notebook. She had just shrugged and said, “Least I didn’t shack up with someone all fratted up,” which had made Steve blush and leave it all well enough alone.

So Steve enters the booth as the previous DJ’s last song is playing, pulls out his laptop and plugs it in. He waits until the song is done and fades it out. “Hey there,” he says into the microphone. “It’s 10:01 on this Tuesday night. This is Captain America—“ Steve’s stupid DJ name that Darcy had given him a while back and had somehow managed to stick “—And you’re listening to Xavier College’s premiere and only radio station, WXCJ. Today we’re gonna listen to some, um, songs about… travel. Yeah, traveling. Where you’re going, what you’re coming home to. So let’s start of with a song called _Those Days Are Gone, and My Heart is Breaking_ by Barton Carroll.”

Steve plays the song—a melancholy tune about leaving and loving and drifting apart—and Darcy makes her way into the booth. “Okay Deep Throat, spill.”

Deep Throat came from Steve’s weirdly low voice, rather than from… y’know. It’s a weird nickname, but Steve doesn’t particularly mind it. Especially the way that Bucky turns red whenever he hears Darcy—the only one audacious enough to use the nickname—call him that.

“What d’you mean?” Steve asks absently while tailoring a playlist for the broadcast.

“I’ve never seen you come in here without a game plan. Then you turn on this melancholy tune? C’mon, Steve-o. What’s got you all kerfluffled?”

Steve sighs, then looks up from the computer. “Are you going abroad next semester, Darcy?”

She snorts. “Hell no. If I left then no one would remind Jane that yes, at least two meals a day _are_ a necessity.” She pauses. “Well, that and you need a 3.2 GPA to go and I have a 3.1.” Steve snorts. “Why, little buddy? You want to go make your way in the big world?”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “I wanna stay,” he says, dragging Peter, Paul and Mary’s iconic _Leaving on a Jet Plane_ into the playlist. “But everyone else wants me to go.”

“This about your hunky boy toy?” Steve leans back in the DJ’s worn out desk chair, lets himself slump. “Trouble in paradise?”

Steve plays with a hole in his jeans. “No,” he says to his pants. “Well, he just wants me to go… I dunno, explore. And I don’t want to do that.”

“He’ll be a senior next year, right?”

Steve nods. “But it’s… I really, _really_ don’t want to miss that, but it’s also… I worked really hard to get into this school. I don’t want to just leave. I like it here. I’m only gonna have four years here anyways. Why do I have to spend one not here?”

“Valid point, Deep Throat.”

“It’s not like the Louvre and the Vatican are just gonna disappear! They’ve been there for a long time and they can wait until I finish school.” And can take Bucky with him, Steve adds on silently. “I’m not in any rush to go see them. It’s not like I will magically not be interested in five years. They’ll keep.”

Darcy shrugs. “You’ve got a lot of anger in that tiny frame.” Steve rolls his eyes.

“You’re not the first to say that.” He turns his attention back to the computer, where he drops a few more songs into the playlist.

“Doubt I’ll be the last, Steve-o,” Darcy says on her way out of the booth. She pauses at the door, though. “But, like, have you communicated? I get the feeling you’re not too great at that, muchacho.”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever man, see if I give you any advice again, you brat.” She winks back at him, though, ruining the effect.

After she leaves, the music maintains the same level of depressing. Steve hopes nobody notices.

**…**

But of course Bucky notices. He never misses Steve’s show, makes the whole gym listen to it while he’s on ID card/sweat wipe-down duty on Tuesday nights. So it’s not too surprising when Steve gets a text in the middle of the show.

10:48: _U ok?_

Steve doesn’t respond.

**…**

When he gets back to Darkholme Hall and opens the door, Bucky is standing behind Sam, looking over his shoulder at something on his laptop.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. “What’re you doing here?”

“Brought you some stuff,” Bucky says. As Steve sets his bag down on his bed and says hello to Sam, Bucky roots through his backpack, revealing a bunch of… pamphlets. He holds them out to Steve. “Humor me, bud. Just take a look.”

Steve is pretty sure he knows what they are, but reaches out and takes them anyway. And he was right. “I’m not going,” Steve says, voice growing cold as his eyes glance over the words ‘Germany!’ ‘France!’ ‘Vienna!’ in bold print. “I told you that.”

“I heard your radio show, Stevie. If you’re feelin’ down about it, you should at least—“

“I’m not feeling down about it!” Something starts boiling at the pit of Steve’s stomach and he unceremoniously drops the pamphlets on his bed before turning back to Bucky.

Bucky’s face looks ashen, hurt. “Steve—“

“It’s… it doesn’t have anything to do with you.” Steve’s voice is shakier, but like hell is he backing down now. “It’s my choice if I want to stay or if I want to go or if… If I want to _transfer_ or take a trip to Mt. Everest, you can’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!”

There’s a pause. Steve’s heart hammers in his chest. “Has nothin’ to do with me?” Bucky asks, voice shaking. “If you—“

“Look guys,” Sam interjects from his desk. “I understand that healthy couples need to fight to keep the magic alive but can you guys do it somewhere that I’m not trying to study?”

“Sorry Sam,” Bucky says, jaw clenched and still staring at Steve. He blinks and even that looks angry. “Guess I’ll go elsewhere, since it doesn’t matter to Steve where I am.”

Before Steve can think of an answer, a way to tell him that he’s twisting his words, that Bucky isn’t understanding what he’s trying to say, Bucky grabs his backpack and storms out of the room. Steve just stares at the door.

“Surprised he didn’t slam the door,” Sam says, shaking Steve out of the moment.

And it doesn’t take long for the tears to well up in Steve’s eyes. His hands shake as he pulls his glasses off and wipes his them with the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. “Yeah,” he manages.

Steve can hear the scratch of Sam’s chair moving back, his steps on the rug as he comes closer. But he doesn’t get in front of Steve, just puts an arm on his shoulder and asks, “You okay man?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says in a small voice.

“You wanna talk?” Steve shakes his head. “You want me to go make a conveniently-timed coffee run?”

“Do you mind?”

“Nah,” Sam says, taking his hand off Steve’s shoulder. “Was thinking about it anyways. You want anything?”

“Thanks, but I’m good.” Caffeine would only make it harder to sleep than it’s already going to be. “I appreciate it.”

“Know you do,” Sam says, grabbing his wallet from his desk and jacket off of his chair. “But, uh, I know this may not be the right time, but maybe you should give them a look— _not_ because I have any opinion on you going abroad or not going abroad or anything like that, but I think Barnes did something special with those brochures, so maybe you could just look them over?”

Glancing over to where they sit on his bed, mocking him in their disarray, Steve nods. “Sure,” he mutters and realizing that Steve is probably a lost cause, Sam scurries out.

Knowing how polite Sam is, Steve is pretty sure that Sam’s coffee run will last long enough for Steve to wallow as long as he could possibly need to. So Steve is going to take advantage of that. First, Steve turns on some music—can’t wallow in misery without an appropriate soundtrack. And if that soundtrack happens to be a collection of Billy Joel’s most depressing tunes—courtesy of a childhood living with Sarah Rogers, Billy Joel’s #1 fan—then no one has to know. It’d ruin his street cred.

Once the music is playing, he changes into his pajamas: a pair of boxers and one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, stolen from Bucky’s room when he wasn’t looking. It’s big on Steve, slips down his shoulder. But it’s comfortable and worn-in and feels distinctly like _Bucky_ , which is just the right kind of torture Steve needs right now.

And then he looks down to the brochures.

There are six of them, each for a different program: one for Germany, two for France, one for Vienna, one in Italy and another in England. They’re glossy and colorful, typeface bold with smiling students on the front of each one. Steve picks one up at random—Explore Germany!—and opens it up. Before he can look at the pamphlet, a note on loose leaf paper flutters out, falling to the floor. Heart pounding, Steve bends down, picks it up, and reads Bucky’s neat, academic script.

**…**

 

> _Stevie,_
> 
> _I know that you don’t want to go abroad. That’s fine. I get it. But humor me and just take a glance at these. If you wake-up in thirty years and decide that not going wild in a foreign country while you were young enough not to care it’s not going to be my fault. Got that? Don’t want you poking me in the side at some crazy early hour and wanting a divorce because you never got drunk on sangrias and fucked an Italian guy on a nude beach._
> 
> _But since you’re so set and you’re just doing this to please me, I made some annotations on the pamphlets. I’m no artist, but I like to think that maybe it’ll make the process a bit less painful._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Bucky_
> 
> **…**

The pamphlets are filled with little annotations and small post-its that Bucky doodled on. There’s one of a stick-figure Steve with his ‘dork glasses’ on top of the Eiffel Tower, hanging off it like King Kong. There’s a list of all of the places Steve should try to have an asthma attack in the Vatican so that the Pope will come and give him some kind of healing blessing. And there are lists Bucky made on the back of each pamphlet, listing all the museums in the area of the program and which famous art pieces they have in them.

It’s too much. Even the crude doodle of a dick that Bucky put in one overly-enthused, openmouthed girl in the Vienna program. It’s all too much.

Steve knows how busy Bucky is, how carefully he schedules out his days and nights. It’s been like that since Steve first met him; he has every moment accounted for, even if he doesn’t let on. His calendar is color-coded and he keeps track of the time he spends on each assignment. He barely sleeps as it is, yet he found the time to meticulously go through each of these brochures and editing them just to make Steve smile. He must be exhausted.

“I’m the worst boyfriend in the world,” Steve mutters as he shuts the Italy brochure closed.

He grabs them all and sets them down on his desk, careful not to lose any of the post-its inside of them, Bucky’s—pretty terrible—drawings too precious to lose. The song switches to _Just the Way You Are_ and tears prickle the corners of Steve’s eyes as Billy Joel croons, “ _Don’t go changing, to try to please me. You’ve never let me down before._ ” Steve grabs his backpack and digs out his phone. Bucky hasn’t texted him since he was in the booth, the ignored ‘U ok?’ “ _I took the good times, I’ll take the bad times. I’ll take you just the way you are._ ”

And Steve finally allows himself to cry.

**…**

“Have you and Barnes even fought before?” Peggy asks Steve at lunch on Wednesday. Lorraine, deciding that Steve was too taciturn to deal with while Sam was too cute not to deal with, moved to the other side of the table to let Steve and Peggy talk it out.

Steve shrugs. “I mean, we’ve bickered about things before, but we’ve never left it… unresolved.”

“And he hasn’t been in touch?” Her searching eyes look Steve up and down, from the dirty zip-up hoodie he wore yesterday to the purplish bags under his eyes and mussed hair. He looks like hell, especially next to Peggy, in her immaculately pressed blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck and ruby red lips. For a fleeting moment, Steve wonders why she lets herself be seen with him, but he’s already feeling bad enough for himself as it is and doesn’t need to add that crippling self-doubt to his pity party.

“No,” Steve responds.

“Frankly Steve, you should just get in touch with him. You look miserable.”

“Am not miserable,” Steve mutters miserably in a miserable tone, face twisted with abject misery.

Peggy rolls her eyes and that’s when Steve sees Bucky walk in. Steve has just enough time to pull his hood up over his head, afraid that Bucky will look over and see just how bad Steve looks before Bucky passes, but Bucky doesn’t even spare a glance his way. He’s walking in with Dum Dum and Jacques Dernier, looking glum with his hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as Steve does, but he’s wearing his mom’s scarf over his black t-shirt, none too fashionable and definitely a sign that’s something’s up to someone who knows Bucky pretty well. But he’s chatting with his friends and something in Steve’s chest eases; that means Bucky is still feeling okay and in control. 

There’s only been one other, pretty minor incident since last November. Bucky had gotten sick, which meant that his careful schedule went out of whack and his work had gotten ahead of him; he ended up going completely AWOL for two days. Steve had gotten in touch with Phil—who Bucky dragged him to meet once, on their most awkward date night to date—on day three. They scoured the campus and found Bucky in the usually locked-off attic of one of the older buildings. It was filled with cobwebs and dust and there was Bucky, dozing softly next to his thrumming computer with nothing but cans of energy drinks around him and a beard half-grown in.

But he had gotten the work done, even if he had to spend three more days with Steve clucking like a mother hen, forcing him to sleep and eat and yelling at him when he tried to protest. Afterwards Bucky had said it was a nice change, since it’s usually Bucky hauling Steve’s butt out of fights and making him remember to eat dinner. And Steve had liked the excuse to spend time with Bucky. He likes any excuse to spend time with Bucky.

“You perked right up,” Peggy says, voice tinged with an edge to deadly, polished, British sarcasm. Steve scowls at her. “Seems like now would be a good chance to speak with him, if you’re going to go about this mature way.” Steve sinks into himself, playing with the strings on his hoodie. “Or,” Peggy adds with a breathy sigh, “You can continue to act like a petulant three year-old.”

“I choose that option.”

**…**

Steve knows that he’s wrong, okay? He just has trouble admitting it out loud and he doesn’t want to say something that could mess things up even worse than they are now. Because, well, the idea of him and Bucky waking-up together in thirty years? That sounds nice. Better than nice. And Steve doesn’t want this to be the thing that jeopardizes that.

**…**

Then again, Steve knows, if he never talks to Bucky again, then he’s signing the death certificate on that little fantasy.

**…**

But by the time Steve finishes his homework Wednesday night, it’s too late for a heart-to-heart and between Steve’s open studio hours and Bucky’s work schedule, he knows Thursday is too tight. That leaves Friday.

Date night.

Steve gets out of class earlier than Bucky on Fridays. The usual plan is for Steve to just let himself into Bucky’s room and find some way to entertain himself until Bucky gets out of class. And because Steve really, _really_ loves Bucky, he deals with the pounding in his chest and heads straight for McCoy after class. He doesn’t bother knocking on Bucky’s door, just opens it up using his illegally copied key.

But Bucky is there, sitting at his desk, looking somewhere between hopeful and angry as he watches the door open. “Steve,” he says, almost breathless. His eyes look a bit bloodshot and his posture is poor.

“You don’t have class?” Steve asks, taking a step into the room and shutting the door behind him.

Bucky shakes his head slow, never taking his eyes from Steve. “Professor cancelled today. Had to go to some conference in Arizona.” He pauses. “I didn’t think you’d show up.” His voice isn’t demanding, just that same brand of breathless hopefulness, like he’s disbelieving that Steve would grant him with his presence, which is _silly_ , since it was Steve who messed this all up in the first place. It’s almost irritating how Bucky is the first to blame himself for everything. Sometimes Steve forgets just how sensitive Bucky can be.

Unable to deal with Bucky’s wide eyes, Steve stares down at his feet on Bucky’s red carpet. “Wasn’t sure you’d want me here.” He pauses; the corner of his lip twitches. “I messed up, Buck. I’m sorry.”

Then Bucky has the audacity to chuckle. Steve looks up too quick, nearly giving himself whiplash and Bucky is _grinning_. “What?” Steve asks, a little lost.

“You’re apologizin’ to me!” Bucky says, grinning. “Jeez, I wasn’t sure your stubborn ass ever apologized to anybody your entire life.”

Steve frowns before muttering, “My ass doesn’t have vocal chords. It can’t apologize to anyone,” which just makes Bucky laugh harder.

“God, I…” He trails off, laughs becoming choked up. All at once he turns away from Steve, covering his eyes with his forearm. “I thought I had really messed up.”

Steve takes one hesitant step over, then another. He reaches out and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezes it gently. “I overreacted,” Steve says, quiet. “I read through the pamphlets, though.”

He glances down. Steve can see trails of wetness on Bucky’s stubbly cheeks, even if his view is still obscured underneath Bucky’s arm—who’d’ve ever thought that out of the two of them, Bucky Barnes would be the crier?—but he’s smiling again. “You did?” he asks.

Steve nods. “They were great, Bucky. I… I should’ve just trusted you.”

Bucky lets his arm drop. He leans into Steve’s abdomen. Steve moves his hand from Bucky’s shoulder to his hair, stroking small circles into his scalp. It’s a little greasy, like Bucky hasn’t washed it in a few days, but he keeps going. “You know,” Bucky says, then cuts short.

“What is it?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, presses his face into the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “You know, my ma didn’t tell us she was sick until after I had already been accepted here. Didn’t want it to get in the way of me havin’ a future, if she didn’t have to. But, uh.” He reaches over and tugs at the bottom of Steve’s shirt, more of an anchor than anything significant before shutting his eyes. “Becky, she didn’t wanna join up before my ma got sick. Didn’t say anythin’ to me about it until my ma was real bad. We both knew that there wasn’t gonna be enough for both of us to go to school. Also knew that when it came down to it, I’d keep workin’, put it off. She didn’t want that. So she told me she was gonna enlist after she graduated and wouldn’t let me talk her outta it.” He winces. “I think about it all the time, how she’s over there riskin’ her life while I’m here, studyin’ history and snugglin’ with you. She says she’s happy, says she likes it. But I’d’ve liked it a lot better if she could’ve gone to school, gotten a good education.” Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he just keeps stroking Bucky’s hair. “I didn’t want you to have to make that decision, to give up doin’ somethin’ amazin’ because of me.”

“It isn’t just—“

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, shifting so that he’s looking up, staring right at Steve. “Can you tell me that it bein’ my senior year next year isn’t a big part of why you don’t wanna go abroad?” Steve feels his mouth thin out and Bucky lets out a forced laugh. “Told ya.”

“Can it,” Steve says without heat.

But then Bucky’s face gets serious again. “I don’t wanna hold anybody back, least of all you.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, pulling at Bucky’s hair just a bit. “Not going to Europe for a semester isn’t like going to war.”

“Doesn’t mean—“

“It can wait, Buck.” He pauses. “’Til we can go together. No essays or exams, just the two of us.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky’s eyes are so impossibly blue, framed by his long lashes. Steve bends down and kisses Bucky’s temple. “Yeah.” Steve pauses to wrap a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck. “Now, I really think we should talk about your artistic skills.”

“Not good enough for my supremely talented little boyfriend?”

Steve grins, wicked. “Nope. They’re perfect. But I have to say that one really stood out to me.”

“And what was that?” Bucky asks, shifting so that Steve can sit down on his knee.

Steve does, pushing in close to his absurdly wonderful boyfriend. “There was the one girl, in the Vienna pamphlet.” He swallows. “With the dick in her mouth.”

Choking back giggles, Bucky asks, “And why’s that, Stevie?”

“It was giving me all sorts of ideas,” Steve admits breathless, as he moves from Bucky’s lap to his knees and grabs at the fly of Bucky’s pants.

**…**

The lights are sparkling, twinkling in the shiny silver of the Eiffel Tower, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes. A soft accordion song plays and the air is cool around them. “We made it,” Bucky says, poking Steve’s side and grinning in his tuxedo.

Steve snorts. “Sure we did,” he replies.

Bucky laughs, reaching around to grab Steve’s shoulders but only succeeding in knocking the cardboard cut-out of the Parisian icon behind them, making it rock precariously into Dum Dum, waiting behind them in line for the cheesy photo-opt. “Jesus Christ Barnes, keep it together, would ya? You’re gonna ruin the party for everybody!”

Steve and Bucky erupt into a fit of giggles, Bucky slipping his hand around Steve’s waist and pulling him in close. It’s mid-September now, the air is cooler now and they’ve known each other for one year. One whole year. And now they’re standing together at some sorority party with a Parisian theme. Steve wouldn’t trade the cheesy party for all the trips to Europe or Asia or Africa or anywhere in the world, not while Bucky is by his side. “Not quite there,” Steve mutters.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “But someday.”

“Someday.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. I won't make any promises about how many other parts there'll be to this story, but know that there will at least be one. That one I've been editing since July.
> 
> Anyhow, if you're not too mad at me for this, consider following me at whtaft.tumblr.com. You only probably won't regret it.


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